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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24458653">Come, Fidélité</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GioseleLouise/pseuds/GioseleLouise'>GioseleLouise</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Disco Elysium (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>4 times plus 1, Amnesia, Angst, Forgetting Your Best Friend, Friendship, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:34:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,049</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24458653</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GioseleLouise/pseuds/GioseleLouise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m going to try to get some sleep.” A pause. “You doing alright?”</p>
<p>What a ridiculous question. Harry’s past has been consuming him. His mind trapped in a personalized, self-inflicted Motorway South from the moment he stepped foot in that fucking silk mill. But Jean wants *boundaries.*</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Fresh from Martinaise, Harry struggles with the fallout of forgetting people that are still in his life. He tries to repair his closest friendship during a police stakeout. In 4 (+ 1) parts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Du Bois &amp; Jean Vicquemare</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m two weeks sober,” Harry says. “After today.”</p><p>His voice is loud in the cramped space. It’s just the two of them there, the living room lit with the orange hues of sunset. Jean doesn’t respond. Only looks back at Harry; lets the silence stretch between them.</p><p>“Did you hear me?”</p><p>“Yes, Harry. You’re two weeks sober. I know.”</p><p>“Oh. Did Judit tell you?”</p><p>“No.” Jean’s gaze turns sharp - there’s a warning there that matches the one in his voice. “Harry I sa-”</p><p>“I know, I know. You need space. I just…” <em>Really wanted to tell you.</em></p><p>Harry wanted to tell Jean a lot of things. He’s felt this way since his return to the Precinct last week. Stepping foot in the refurbished silk mill was like pulling a rope at curtain call. Fluttering rolodexes and the heady scent of triple-strength dark roast filled Harry with half-cast memories; released ghosts that yanked Harry’s emotions and tugged at his heartstrings. The problem was that his fractured mind failed to recall any of the fucking backstory to these feelings. </p><p>So he spent a lot of last week lost. Apologizing to faces whose names he didn’t remember. Twisting his mind to remember why certain phrases seem so funny. Sneaking off to the bathroom to cry when it got too much. Everyone noticed. So everyone was relieved this op came up. A three-day stakeout in a forgotten corner of the Valley was the perfect combination of ‘work suitable for a recovering gunshot victim’ and ‘hidden-from-sight.’ Harry agreed; it gave him the needed time to process everything. Piece his past back together. </p><p>His only issue was that Jean was with him.</p><p>“Harry?”</p><p>Harry startles and shakes himself out of his head.</p><p>“Getting overwhelmed?” Jean asks. He holds out a jar of strawberry compôte, gestures to the fridge.</p><p>“Uh…” <em>Yes</em>. But Jean wants space. So Harry smiles reassuringly; accidentally makes The Expression.</p><p>“Alright. I’ll take that as a yes.”</p><p>“Sorry.” Harry says quickly. He grabs the jar, “Yeah, I’m still adjusting and dealing with this amnesia shit. You know how easily my brain gets-”</p><p>A gust of wind rattles the thin windows of their stakeout apartment.</p><p>“-distracted.” </p><p>He holds his breath for Jean’s reaction. The lazy smirk. Sarcasm with no bite. <em>You pick the best times to tell me I can’t rely on you.</em> But Jean just turns back to the groceries, expression impassive. And it’s like missing a step on the stairs. Groping for a switch that’s supposed to be there. Something is off.</p><p>Harry doesn’t remember much, but he knows they were close.</p><p>He stops himself from calling this out. From telling the other man that being around him has been triggering memories all day. Even something as benign as Jean’s arm in a paper bag reminds Harry of pulling out a six-pack on a Friday night. <em>And weren’t those nights fun? I remember we used to have fun, Jean.</em> Not bridging this distance hurts him; tears at Harry’s heart and makes him feel like he’s drowning in the silence.</p><p>“Go sit down.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I’ve been calling you for the past five minutes,” Jean says. “You’re spacey as fuck. Sit.”</p><p>“I can help,” Harry insists.</p><p>Jean ignores him. Walks past with their bag of groceries and snatches the jar of compôte from Harry’s hand faster than he can react. Harry is about to protest when he sees the tension in Jean’s shoulders. The way his back is turned to him. Good talk. Fuck off and go sit down now.</p><p>It’s fucking annoying, half-forgetting your best friend. Harry remembers enough to recognize the dismissal but not enough to know how to weasel out of it. And again, there’s that feeling of missing a step. Of not being able to scratch an itch. He's so frustratingly out of sync with this man.</p><p>Harry sighs and marches to a chair by the windows; sulky. Outside, the winter sun is halfway under the horizon. Their mark sits across the street: a decrepit warehouse washed in the beautiful rays of sunset. No one’s been there in weeks. Behind him, Harry hears the fridge shut.</p><p>“Harry.”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“I’m going to try to get some sleep.” A pause. “You doing alright?”</p><p>What a ridiculous question. Harry’s past has been consuming him. His mind trapped in a personalized, self-inflicted Motorway South from the moment he stepped foot in that fucking silk mill. But Jean wants <em>boundaries</em>.</p><p>“Yeah man,” Harry says, not turning from the window. The sunset is captivating; beauty familiar enough to unearth a million memories if Harry focused. “I’m peachy.”</p><p>“Cool,” Jean says. “I’ll see you in eight hours.” He almost sounds worried. </p><p>Despite it being rush hour, there’s no traffic in the street below. Harry is distantly aware of the door to the small bedroom creaking open and shutting. He stares at the warehouse until his eyes tire. It doesn’t take long. </p><p>His gaze wanders until it focuses on his reflection in the window pane. The sun’s golden glow shines brilliantly on his face. Some would see the light as hope, but Harry recognizes the setting sun for what it is.</p><p>It's going to be a long three days.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! Thank you to @Darelz and @pikalex88 for their feedback and encouragement.</p><p>And of course @rathma, for always having great taste</p><p>Come say hi @ giosele.tumblr.com. Feedback is always greatly appreciated.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She meets him on familiar ground. The shack in Martinaise’s fishing village had once smelled like wet wood and sea salt. Dolores Dei brings the scent of Tutti Frutti bubble gum and makes it smell like home.</p><p>“Oh Harrier,” she sighs tenderly, “What have you done?”</p><p>Her hand comes close to his cheek. Close, but not touching. A gale pierces through the wood slats and chills Harry’s skin. Even the worthless can suffer. And he does. He compresses, shivers, and wraps his useless arms around his chest, but nothing can stop the cold from cutting into his bones and piercing his heart.</p><p>Strong winds twist around her, flourishing her blonde hair, and tangling it tastefully between the rungs of her crown. She doesn’t flinch. She’s not cold. She’s perfect. And her beauty keeps her warm.</p><p>“You thought you could forget me? I’m a part of you Harry. I’m in your bones.” She smiles and her face is so terribly beautiful that the air leaves his lungs. “I’m the beating heart of you.”</p><p>“You’re right.” The words feel ripped out of him, burning in the wake of his empty lungs. He longs for her and doesn’t know why, “I shouldn’t have tried to forget you - it was a mistake! I love you, I’ll always love you, I’m sorry.”</p><p>Harry leans into her palm; he’s missed her warmth on these cold, winter nights.</p><p>“Sorry?” She pulls away, “Oh, Harry.”</p><p>“Come back,” he whines between chattering teeth. Harry chases after her. Mirroring him, she steps back and her dress flows like a cloud around her.</p><p>“It’s cute you think you can fix it all,” she says tenderly. “Fix your home, your career, your body, your friendships. But…” Her hands travel below her glowing lungs to rest gracefully on her stomach, “You can’t fix this. You failed and there’s no coming back from this, Harry.”</p><p>“No!” He steps forward, but the ground dips. Wood panels bending convex, a steepening parabolic curve swallowing him. She watches him sink.</p><p>“I can! I can fix this!” He shouts. He tries to climb up, but the icy wind has frosted over the wood slats. He was an idiot for waiting this long; the sides of the hole are suddenly too steep and slippery. He can’t get a foot hold. Even in the ground, the cold stings.</p><p>“I love you!” Harry peels an arm from his frozen torso to reach out to her. Her beauty radiates like the sun. Why would he try to forget someone so beautiful? He'll die without her - a worthless, lonely soul on the coast. “I’ll always love you. I’ll love only you for the rest of my life! Don’t leave me, please!”</p><p>She tilts her head to look down at him; pity nestled in her dazzling blue eyes. “Oh, Harry. It’s so sad watching you struggle. Just give up. For your own sake, <em>please </em>give up. Give up, you pathetic piece of-”</p><p>“Harry!”</p><p>Fluorescent lights burn his eyes and slap him into consciousness.</p><p>“You’re screaming.” Harry is vaguely aware of a hand on his shoulder; Jean standing over him. It takes him a moment to re-orient himself. To remember he’s not in the fishing village of Martinaise. He’s drooling over a table in the Valley of the Dogs; half-asleep. His heart is racing. And he still tastes sea salt on his tongue.</p><p>“Ouch.” God why couldn’t he have made it to the couch? Harry's neck protests like a rusted machine as he sits up. He’s grinding his teeth just to keep from crying out.</p><p>“How’s your thigh?”</p><p>“What?” Dora’s specter is gone, but the chill is real. Thin glass windowpanes clatter like a baby’s rattle and Harry has to stop himself from wrapping his arms around his body.</p><p>“Can you make it to the bed?” Jean asks.</p><p>“I don’t know.” He’s scared to move his leg. Scared of the pain and feeling like he’s slipping on icy wooden slats. Cold bites into the tips of his fingers and he presses them into his palm to warm them up. “It’s your turn to watch…?”</p><p>“No,” Jean admits. “You have three hours left, but you were screaming in your sleep. Also, you fucking <em>fell asleep</em>, so...”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Harry insists. Beautiful Dora and her words wait in his dreams. He can’t go back. “Gonna stay up now.”</p><p>“At least stretch your leg out.” Jean hovers over Harry; concerned. Despite his unease, there’s something guarded in his expression. A wall Jean is keeping up.</p><p>Harry understands.</p><p>“Are you- goddammit Harry,” Jean sighs. Harry shrugs Jean’s hand off his shoulder as he struggles to stand up. Thigh screaming and back broken, he hobbles to the couch.</p><p>“The windows are low, Vic. I can see the warehouse from here.” Harry gropes the back pillows of the couch for support. He grits his teeth as he kneels onto the cushions; pain spiking to new heights.</p><p>“Harry, let me help you.”</p><p>Harry flails until the hand on his back disappears.</p><p>Moving into a horizontal position shouldn’t be this painful. Has anyone, Harry wonders through watering eyes, blacked out while trying to lie down? He could be the first. At least Jean is here in case his body gives up. He can cart him to the hospital if Harry’s survival instinct decides passing out if preferable to enduring this much pain. Harry cries out as he reclines backwards. He thinks he screams as he crosses the last few centimeters and everything blurs into a burning haze.</p><p>Then there’s a <em>thump </em>followed by a wave of sweet relief as his body is completely supported by the couch. Harry allows himself a few moments to catch his breath before giving Jean a weak smile. He’s only a little confident he’s not making The Expression.</p><p>“See?” Harry says, teary-eyed and between breaths, “I’m <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>The look Jean gives him sits between abject horror and concern. Either way, he doesn’t look convinced and he pulls out a chair next to the window furthest from Harry.</p><p>“Vic, I said I’m-”</p><p>“You’ll be screaming again in an hour,” he interrupts. Jean crosses his arms on the table and pillows his head on his forearms; turns his head towards the window.</p><p>Despite the cold, Harry earned a film of sweat from his task. He’s still breathing heavy, but the pain is subsiding. Receding slowly like a wave.</p><p>“What did I say in my sleep?”</p><p>“Same bullshit you always do.”</p><p>Harry swallows. They've been here before.</p><p>“She won’t leave you alone for the rest of the night,” continues Jean. He mutters the next sentence like an afterthought, “The nightmares won’t be as bad if someone’s in the room with you.”</p><p>“You don’t have to babysit me,” Harry says. But Jean doesn’t answer.</p><p>Harry stews on the couch, equal parts touched and annoyed. Lying down, its easy to recognize how uncomfortable he was sitting up. Pain buzzes in dull aches around his body but it’s magnitudes better than the agony he was dealing with. The couch is much more comfortable than he expected; firm cushions morphing around his body, fabric retaining his body heat. It would be easy to sleep here. Easy to close his eyes and doze off…</p><p>A memory swims to the surface, as faint as a dying flame. He can trace its outline if he focuses; dig into the feelings there.</p><p>“This is familiar,” Harry mumbles, “I think…I used to crash on your couch a lot.”</p><p>The only response is howling wind, rattling windows, and Jean’s measured breathing - he's asleep.</p><p>“I think I can remember what your apartment looks like,” Harry mutters softly. He visualizes a canvas covered with red and white acrylic overhead. “You had this painting above your couch. I used to stare at it before I went to sleep.”</p><p>Habit draws Harry’s gaze to the warehouse outside. Washed in the dim glow of streetlights, it looks even more derelict than before.</p><p>The memory fades as if offended by the shift in attention. He sighs.</p><p>“I became friends with Kim Kitsuragi,” Harry continues quietly. “Kim helped me clean my apartment. It took all weekend but we did it. You’d be really impressed, Vic. It’s super clean now. You can see <em>and </em>eat off the floor.”</p><p>Harry pauses as the wind dies; he doesn’t want to wake Jean up. It’s pathetic what he’s doing. Having this one-sided conversation. Pretending they’re fine. But the more Harry talks, the more this ache in his heart goes away.</p><p>“I think you’ll really like Kim - he’s super professional. Unlike me.” Harry smiles, “You two will hit it off once he’s transferred to the 41st. Oh, Kim’s coming with me to AA this weekend. And he babysat me too...”</p><p>Harry shuts his eyes and thinks back to the sea fortress - the wind howling like it does here. He misses how safe and comfortable he felt around Kim. Misses how nice it felt to turn to his companion and feel friendship instead of this jagged, aching hurt. He doesn’t open his eyes.</p><p>“…Except he talked to me before I slept in the lighthouse.”</p><p>“Am I supposed to know what any of that means?”</p><p>Harry gasps, “You’re awake.”</p><p>“Hasn’t even been a day and you’re breaking boundaries,” Jean sits up and rubs his eyes. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”</p><p>“I thought you were sleeping! Also I’ve been respectful - so you can drop this quiet thing.”</p><p>“What <em>quiet thing</em>?”</p><p>“This. You. The quiet thing.”</p><p>“That was really helpful, Harry. Thank you.”</p><p>“You’re doing it right now,” Harry settles into the couch, “Your quiet thing. This act. Like everything’s water off your back.”</p><p>Jean shoots him a sharp look, “Harry, everything <em>is </em>water off my back after dealing with your shit-show from the past few months. That warehouse could implode and projectile itself into the Insulindian Sea and tracking it would be a walk in the park compared to managing you when you’re high off your ass, wearing some <em>clown costume</em>-” he cuts himself off and runs a hand through his hair. Sighs, <em>“Goddammit, Harry.”</em></p><p>Between heavy lidded eyes, Harry catches Jean clenching his jaw.</p><p>“See, <em>that </em>is what I was expecting.” It’s hard, but Harry bites back a yawn; forces his eyes open. Jean is <em>finally </em>talking to him. “What happened to the guy that cursed me out for every little thing? You were such an angry asshole in Martinaise.”</p><p>“Could you fucking <em>blame me?</em>” His incredulity pulls Harry from sleep, “And they weren’t <em>little things.</em> You crashed our- fuck it. I won’t get into it. The list is too fucking long. And I shouldn’t be yelling at you.”</p><p>He’s holding back. And with the way Jean is looking at him, Harry’s instinct is urging him to tread carefully. A hazy memory surfaces - more a wave of dread than a collection of thoughts.<em> Harry, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Shut up…</em></p><p>“Keep yelling at me if it helps,” Harry offers. An olive branch is the best way to fend off danger. If this is what their friendship was, Harry could get used to the emotional abuse. <em>Needs </em>to so it could go back to the way it was. He yawns and stretches his good leg out, toes pointing towards the window.</p><p>“I want you to be yourself. Even if it means you’re a fucking asshole sometimes. Better than you doing this quiet thing.”</p><p>He knows immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Jean’s expression is inscrutable, but Harry sees his error in the other man’s sudden stillness; the coldness in his eyes.</p><p>“Have you considered,” Jean says slowly, “That this <em>quiet thing</em> is just my personality? Perhaps I don’t <em>like </em>being an <em>angry asshole</em>?”</p><p>“Sorry. I-”</p><p>“Don’t remember. I know,” Jean’s tone cuts like a knife. And Harry knows, instinctively, that he hurt this man. “All you remember is Martinaise.”</p><p>Jean lets silence sink between them and Harry, too, is sinking. His lacerated heart plunging and his body begging for sleep. Dora beckons. <em>Just give up.</em></p><p>No.</p><p>He shouldn’t have said what he did. Fuck. Harry rallies to blurt the first thing that comes to mind; talking is <em>so </em>hard, “D-did you know I’m two weeks sober?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Right,” Harry mumbles, feeling stupid, “I told you.”</p><p>“I already knew.”</p><p>“Yes, right. I’m sorry. I forgot. Who told you?”</p><p>“No one,” Jean says, “We’ve been working together for like twenty fucking years. I can tell when you’re sober. ”</p><p>“…Have we?”</p><p>
  <em>Oh Harry. It’s so sad watching you struggle.</em>
</p><p>“You don’t…God, Harry, how old do you think I am?” Jean asks, his voice broken, “This is why I fucking needed space - you don’t remember me at all.”</p><p>The defeat in his voice is something Harry never wanted to hear. God, it kills him. It digs into his chest and grinds his heart into a mangled, miserable wreck. He feels like shit - like the scum of the Earth. He maims everything he touches. And Harry is too far gone to stave off sleep; not when his eyelids are this heavy and his body <em>melts</em> into the wonderful couch.</p><p>“Jean, that’s not true,” Harry aches to say. Doesn’t. Sleep has claimed him at last.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There’s an Esprit De Corps check that confirms Jean is 34, in case anyone is wondering ;)</p><p>Thank you for reading!<br/>Come say hi @ giosele.tumblr.com - feedback is always greatly appreciated.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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